It was early morning. Marcus was already there, reading softly when I walked in.
Then, I saw it — a small twitch in Jake’s hand.
We froze. Then Jake’s fingers moved again. The machines beeped wildly. His eyelids fluttered.
“Jake!” I called, grabbing his hand. “Buddy, it’s Dad. Can you hear me?”
And then his eyes opened.
The nurses rushed in. My heart felt like it might burst. Jake looked confused, his gaze darting between us — and then landed on Marcus.
“You…” he whispered, his voice raspy. “You’re the man who saved me.”
Marcus blinked, stunned. “Son, I— I hit you with my bike.”
Jake shook his head weakly. “You stopped. You pulled me back. You held me and told me I’d be okay. You saved me.”
Tears rolled down Marcus’s face — this big, tattooed biker crying openly beside my son’s hospital bed.
